Page 6 of Saxon

"Oh." I laugh, sticking out my hand. "Terra Connelly."

"Terra. Cool name." He takes my hand and shakes—to his credit, he squeezes pretty hard, not crushing but also not acting like I'm a delicate little flower petal. "Saxon Cabot."

"Saxon? Like the dudes who invaded England?"

He nods. "The same.”

I give him a once over. "It suits you."

I grab his hand again and haul him to the elevators, stabbing the button for the third floor, where the conference rooms are.

Abruptly, I feel Saxon go stiff as a board next to me.

I glance up at him and see that the blood has drained from his face, leaving him looking like a Roman statue. His eyes are fixed on a point dead ahead--the doors of the hotel.

I follow his gaze and see four men standing in a line abreast. They're all dressed like Saxon, in black suits with no tie. These men, however, radiate threat. Death lurks in their cold, dead eyes.

"Fuck." His voice is low, hard. "Fucking fuck. Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit."

"Friends of yours?" I ask as the doors slide closed.

He doesn't answer for a long time. "No."

I huff a sarcastic laugh. "No shit, Sherlock." I eye him. "Who were they?"

"Very dangerous men who want me dead."

"Well, that's fun."

He looks down at me. "No. It's not."

"Jeez, duh. Take a joke."

His green eyes are ice-cold, furious—the kind of fury that masks outright terror. "No, you don't understand, Terra Connelly. They want me dead. They wanted me dead years ago. And now they've found me."

"So, hide?"

"Not that simple."

"Sure, it is. It's a big world. Toss your phone, pay cash, and go live in the Maldives or something."

"You don't understand," he repeats. "They saw you. With me."

"And?" I look up at him, a certain discomfort taking shape in my gut.

"And…they will kill anyone and everyone even remotely connected to me. Your mom, your dad, your friends Tom and Emily, your dog, your hamster, your grandma. And they won't just shoot you to make a point to me—they'll torture you and send me the video."

"Well Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle!" I shout. "What the fuck did you do to piss them off that bad?"

"I refused to kill an innocent woman."

"Who?"

"Camilla Marccione."

"Oh. Fuck."

Camilla Marccione is the daughter of the most dangerous Italian mafia gangster on the entire East Coast. She's heir to that fortune, and by all reports, takes after her father in terms of cold-blooded calculation.